


and times, they are a-changin'

by uptillthree



Series: and living well [3]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, Nicaise Lives, idk what i'm doing with this series really, talk of manipulation, talk of slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 07:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uptillthree/pseuds/uptillthree
Summary: King Laurent asks him, “How was your first Veretian council?” and Nicaise grimaces. The king smirks, like, ‘Oh, I know.’ It had been nerve-wracking, to sit there in full awareness of the councilors’ disapproval of him, the half-voiced insults and barely-there accusations.Never had a pet risen high enough in society to truly join the royal council. Nicaise had never been important enough to actually feature in courtier gossip. “I think I prefer the Akielon court,” Nicaise sighs.“I never thought I’d see the day,” Nikandros of Ios quips, and Nicaise turns pink.“I wasn’t talking to you.”





	and times, they are a-changin'

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all like this even if it's not exactly about... anything? I just shoved together a bunch of Nicaise ramblings. Maybe one day I'll publish damenlaurent for real. I'll also mark the series as complete for now because I don't have anything to add to it and 3 stories feels like a pretty good number, but you never know. Maybe I'll find more Nicaise ideas to cry about and add those. Anyway. Please tell me what you think! :)

i.

“My name’s Harcourt,” the Regent’s pet says loudly as Nicaise drags him off to the private training ring. Nicaise wrinkles his nose. _Harcourt._ The kid doesn’t look like a _Harcourt,_ all petulant and small and shrill. Harcourt sounds like a name for nobles, not— _this_.

But Nicaise wants to stop thinking of him as ‘the Regent’s pet’. “Harcourt,” he says. “I’m Nicaise.”

They’ve reached the training ring. Nicaise watches Harcourt take it all in, light brown eyes passing over the swords, knives, spears. The glory of stepping into a training ring for the first time. Nicaise has felt it for himself just weeks ago.

Harcourt bounces on the balls of his feet for a while, gaze sharp with interest; Nicaise crosses his arms and waits, until Harcourt rushes over to the weaponry. “Well?” Harcourt asks. Nicaise can tell he’s trying not to sound too eager. “You gonna teach me or not?”

 

ii.

The transition is smooth, just as the kings had promised. The freed Akielon slaves are given support, financially and socially; they’re offered an education; they’re given the choice to stay in the palace as servants or begin their lives outside it.

Akielos is being turned upon her head, slowly. It makes Nicaise wonder about Vere.

It isn’t a shock that most of the slaves choose to stay in service to their king. Damen had given the slaves who had been killed in the wake of Kastor’s ascension a proper memorial, too. In some ways, it was just as solemn as Kastor’s own funeral. Akielos is turning, and turning, and turning.

So now Akielos has far more servants than needed. On the first day, a servant lays out Nicaise’s clothes and draws a bath and fixes meals. But the first thing the servant says, instead of _how may I serve you?_ or _is there anything else you need?_ is, “May I ask something?”

“You’re a servant,” Nicaise says, more out of surprise than deliberate rudeness.

“You’re not royalty,” the servant counters, before blushing. He looks terrified. Nicaise can admire his nerve. “I just— you came from Vere? With His Majesty.”

Nicaise tilts his head. “Yes.”

“This— I apologize for my rudeness, please, I— the slaves who were sent to Vere, what happened to them?”

 _That_ surprises him. “The slaves in Vere?” Already, Arles seems like an age ago. Faintly Nicaise recalls Kastor’s gift to Vere: the slaves, mindless and demure, their foreheads touching the floor in front of the Regent; the final game he and Laurent had played, wherein Nicaise had lost spectacularly; the slaves being sent away again, to Prince Torveld. “The slaves are in Patras, now.” The servant’s eyes widen, face desperate as a man needing water after days in the desert. “Why do you ask?”

“I— I have a friend,” the servant says, haltingly, as if all his nerve has left him now that he has the information he wants. “Who is one of those slaves. I— are they safe? In Patras?”

Nicaise thinks about the Regent and the branding irons stoking in the fire and himself. “Safer than in Vere.”

The servant nods. Bows. “I— thank you, sir, for speaking with me. It means much.”

But the longing on his face hasn’t left. In fact, it looks worse. “Wait,” Nicaise says before the servant can flee. “There’s a retinue of servants who will come to Marlas for Laurent’s ascension. Treaties will be arranged with other nations there, soon. Patras will probably be one of those nations.” The servant stares at him like he is drinking up every word. “If you tell me your name I can ensure you are part of that retinue.”

Abruptly, the servant lowers himself to the floor, his lips to the thick rug. “This sla— this servant is called Kallias,” he says, tears in his voice. “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

Nicaise frowns. There is something about the way Kallias prostrates himself at his feet that disgusts him; there is something about the way Kallias slips back into old roles so easily that bothers him. It’s almost distressing.

Worse is that Nicaise _gets_ it; Nicaise knows the feeling. “Get up,” he snaps. “You’re a servant, not a slave.”

 

iii.

The Regent’s body, disgraced, was given a private burial in a common cemetery, and for once there were no unnecessary proceedings, no extravagant affairs or decor. It was simply a hole in the dirt, a shovel, a coffin— cheap and wooden, not white marble like Prince Auguste’s had been, or gold like King Aleron’s.

Nicaise does not attend the funeral. Neither does Laurent. Nicaise doesn’t bring it up with Harcourt. He’s not entirely sure anyone goes, anyone important; he doesn’t care to know. Instead of black, Nicaise wears a light blue undershirt and buys himself a new earring.

 

iv.

Laurent of Vere, son of Aleron, brother to Auguste, is crowned King in the castle of Marlas. The sun beams bright and blinding, the gold on His Majesty’s head and wrist a beacon against the crowd, the sky cloudless and as blue as it has ever been.

It is a good day for a royal ascension. The crowd hails the king and his reign— _long live, long live, long live King Laurent!_ Nicaise does not think he has seen Laurent smile so genuinely in all his life. After the coronation, King Damianos stands beside him, and here, now, surrounded by admirers and courtiers and commoners who cheer— they are both kings. They both look like they are born for thrones.

Later, Nicaise slips away from the festivities and breathes in the cool night air. In front of him, the field of Marlas is a stretch of grass. It is a full moon, tonight. For once in his life, there is nothing— _nothing—_ to worry about.

Laurent comes to stand beside him. Nicaise tries to speak, but something lodges in his throat. The distance between him and Laurent is not like before; here is his new King.

Then Laurent smiles at him in the same way he always has, half a smirk and genuine kindness, and nothing and everything has changed.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it?” Nicaise asks, before he can lose all nerve. “The battle of Marlas, when Prince Auguste…”

King Laurent sends him a sideways look. “I see you’ve been studying your history well.”

Nicaise looks down. “It’s interesting.” Nicaise had been barely seven when Prince Auguste fell on the battlefield; in other words, not old enough to really care. Now, Auguste’s name is spilled across textbooks, a golden figure immortalized, the mark he had left upon Vere short, but shining. “Why did you want to be crowned here?”

“Well,” Laurent says, taking a breath of air, “as King, I want to… I will change everything in Vere that my uncle has left behind. It started with Marlas— the arrow that killed my father, the war that killed my brother. I... want Marlas to be known for more than just a defeat. Both to my people, and to myself.”

Nicaise can’t help it. “But mostly to yourself?”

Laurent closes his eyes, nostrils flaring, and for a moment Nicaise imagines he’s angered him— and isn’t _that_ a real accomplishment, angering the king on his first night as one— but Laurent just folds his arms and says, “All right. Maybe so. Mostly for myself.” A pause. “I don’t wish to dwell on memories of this place, when those memories matter so little to what is here and now. And… compared to Arles, Marlas is preferable.”

Nicaise nods slowly. The night air lifts Laurent’s cape and hair ever so slightly. It’s warmer here than in Arles; not so cold. “Marlas will be the center.”

“Marlas is the center,” King Laurent says.

 

v.

In the training ring, Harcourt begins to develop a fighting style that is impulsive, reckless, and deadly. It’s  _irritating;_ the boy is full of offense with no thoughts to block his opponent’s attacks. It’s bad form. Abysmal. Nicaise is barely a swordsman and even he can see it.

Nicaise tells him so, and Harcourt frowns. “My defense _is_ my offense.”

“You’re not anywhere near good enough to use _that_ technique,” Nicaise says, and tries not to sneer. “You have to learn the rules before you try breaking them.”

Harcourt glowers. Nicaise folds his arms and waits.

“Teach me all the rules, then.”

 

vi.

One day outside in the garden of Marlas, King Damianos looks inquiringly at Nicaise. “Have you ridden on horseback before?”

“What? Of course,” Nicaise snaps, affronted. He’s a decent rider. Laurent has taught him as much.

Damen laughs. “Ever ridden at a full gallop?”

Nicaise frowns. (He’d gone horse riding with the Regent many times, but the Regent had mostly preferred an easy trot. Laurent hadn’t actually allowed him anything faster than a canter.)

Damen grins. “I’ll race you.”

 

vii.

Nicaise loses the race, obviously. They race around the orchard and back to the stables, but Damen was clearly the winner from the start. Damen slows them both down before Nicaise’s mare can throw him off. He ties both horses to a post, laughing while Nicaise tries not to sulk.

He sulks.

“Don’t be like that,” Damen says brightly, grinning. “You’ll get better with time for sure.”

Nicaise opens his mouth to retort, but then he sees Laurent striding out of the stables and all he can think, instead, is _Oh, no._

“I saw that,” King Laurent says. “Both of you. Nicaise, I—”

“It was all him,” Nicaise says quickly, eyes wide, palms up in mock surrender. “The king _dared_ me to race.” Laurent doesn’t look convinced.

Damen raises his eyebrows at Laurent. “What? If you tell me you’ve never once pushed you and your horse into a gallop behind your tutor’s back, and felt twice the thrill of the ride,” Damen claims, “then I know you lie.” He’s still grinning. “I bet you did that _dozens_ of times.”

Laurent rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile, there. “He could have fallen off.”

“No danger of that! I would have caught him.”

“You were _ahead_ of him.”

“Just barely! And you’ve taught him how to fall, haven’t you?”

Impossibly, Laurent snorts. "That's not the _point_ of teaching him how to fall."

"Then _what_ is? And besides," Damen laughs, stepping closer to Laurent, and Nicaise is torn between leaving in disgust and watching the exchange, "Wasn't it the game you liked?"

Laurent lets out a breath that is half laughter and half pure disbelief. Nicaise decides it must be safe to interrupt. “Can I go again?” he asks. “I mean, I’ve done it before, now, so.”

Laurent folds his arms, stern again. “Mm. But fetch water and apples for the horses first. And you will start with a slow _walk,_ this time.” He turns to beckon Nicaise into the stables. “I will ride alongside you.”

Nicaise grins.

 

viii.

“Well,” King Laurent says, as they step through the newly polished halls of Marlas. The tone of his voice is too conversational. (Laurent is _never_ conversational.) “How was your first Veretian Council?”

Nicaise grimaces at him, and the king smirks back in a way that almost says, _Oh, I_ know. _Terrible, isn’t it?_

 _The viper pit,_ Nicaise muses. King Damianos and Nikandros of Ios were present in the meeting, as ambassadors— but still the meeting was almost entirely Veretian, in a castle between two nations. The alliance was forged, but still floundering. Nicaise thinks of the Akielon council, with Makedon’s impulsive demands and Nikandros’ unending protests, and he almost longs for it. He had thought it simple of them, at first—brainless, even; but there was an easy directness in Akielon debate that was not present in Veretian conversation. There were no hidden messages or lewd insinuations, there.

 _You’ve just been complacent,_ Nicaise scolds himself. _You’re turning into an Akielon brute!_ But facing the council was nerve-wracking at best. (Nicaise will admit that to no one but himself.) It was terrifying, to see the councillors see _him,_ to look them in the eye, not as a pet but a member in attendance.

Nicaise has been to Council meetings before, but always… always at the Regent’s side. At his feet; in his lap; on a stool beside him. Just now he had sat in a chair of his own, interrupted Chelaut’s unhelpful blatherings at least twice, and offered his own ideas up for argument or approval. It had felt heady, that feeling: power. Still he had noticed the councillors’ disapproval, the half-voiced insults and barely-there accusations, both to him and the new king. Laurent had weathered it well; Nicaise supposed he, at least, must be used to it.

Never had a pet risen high enough in society to truly join the royal council. Nicaise had never been important enough to actually feature _in_ courtier gossip.

Terrifying. Heady.

“I think I prefer the Akielon court,” Nicaise says finally.

Behind him, Nikandros lets out a rough bark of a laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day.” Nicaise can tell without looking that he and Damen are sharing a grin.

He flushes. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he says, and stalks ahead of them.

Laurent keeps pace with him. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. Nicaise glances at him, and the king’s eyes are like glaciers. “It won’t be as easy next time, for the Council to intimidate you.”

Nicaise blinks. He holds his Highness’ gaze and hopes his own is just as cutting. There is just the hint of a smile on King Laurent’s lips, and Nicaise knows it is mirrored on his own face. “I promise you, it won’t.”

 

ix.

Torveld of Patras is one of the first foreign royals to visit the fortress of Marlas after Laurent and Damen’s alliance. Nicaise hears he’s brought a slave with him, but he has no way of knowing whether they’re Akielon or whether they will know about Kallias’ ‘friend’.

Prince Torveld isn’t pleased, either, when he learns that slavery has been abolished in Akielos. He is less bothered about the plan to abolish Veretian pet contracts, but then, Patras is closer and more similar to Akielos than Vere. He’s diplomatic enough not to show it, but it makes him uncomfortable. Nicaise can see it.

(King Damianos wholly ignores his discomfort, barreling on with talks of freeing Patran slaves as well; King Laurent is supremely unbothered. “The most privileged people are often the most bothered,” he says breezily, “when faced with the more deplorable aspects of their own society. Particularly when they’ve benefitted from it in the past.”)

Nicaise comes across Torveld’s slave in the gardens: the only person in the palace with a collar around his neck. It’s only been a few weeks since the Akielon slaves were set free, but already the collar looks foreign to Nicaise's eyes, like it shouldn’t be there.

“Do you know anyone named Kallias?”

The slave jerks, and turns.

 _Oh. Oh, no._ “It’s you,” Nicaise says, his voice coming out strangled. It’s the slave from the fire dance, from Kastor’s gift, from Nicaise’s final gamble with Laurent. Of course it is. Torveld had probably taken a liking to him ever since that night.

The slave looks far more frightened of Nicaise than Nicaise is of him. “Kallias?” The lovely face has turned white, but Nicaise realizes it’s because he recognizes the name.

He can’t deal with it. He doesn’t want to own up to the truth that he’s tried to have this man hurt before because of a _bet._ Laurent’s words about privilege and society and slavery come unbidden in his head. _Shut up, Laurent._

“Kallias is a servant in the kitchens,” Nicaise says briskly. “He asked after you.”

“I don’t understand— what did— why would Kallias—”

“I think he wishes to see you,” Nicaise says, and watches the slave’s eyes light in fear and hope. Nicaise draws himself to his full height, which is not much. Still, he’s as tall as the slave, at least. “So _go.”_

The slave flees. Nicaise frowns at the ground, hoping it is enough.

 

x.

Harcourt is not so bad— when Nicaise can actually get him to follow. The boy is easily bored of studying books and maps and art, and he is at least twice as stubborn as Nicaise in the training arena. In music where they study under the same tutor, though, he learns even faster than Nicaise, which is annoying beyond words.

But all that is largely inconsequential in the task of getting along with Harcourt. The real hardship lay in tolerating Harcourt whenever the _Regent_ came up.

At first Nicaise simply tries never speaking of it at all, but Harcourt keeps bringing him up, asking questions like _Why did the king think he was a traitor?_ and _Where is he buried?_ and _Why do you hate him so?_ Like one who has lost someone dear to them and is grappling for any leftover trinkets of information, any at all. It is a strange, terrible, wholly undeserved kind of grief.

It opens wounds that will not close.

And when Nicaise answers the questions— well. That is usually where the fighting begins.

“He _did too_ love me,” Harcourt says, voice rising with indignance, eyes wide with faith. He looks young and trusting and _stupid._ “He said so!”

 _“He didn’t!”_ Nicaise snarls. This entire fight is so stupid, he doesn’t know why he’s even trying. _“He was a liar and a traitor, Harcourt!”_ His voice cracks again. He can’t breathe.

 _“You’re_ a liar,” Harcourt shouts, and the way his face twists up in childish anger makes him look even younger. “Just because he didn’t love _you_ —”

Nicaise’s blood runs cold. He swears. _“SHUT_ — _UP, HARCOURT!”_ He hates how the words force themselves out of his throat, slipping from his control— he hates how Harcourt freezes, because for all the insults they’ve both thrown Nicaise has never _yelled_ like that before—

He strides out of the room before he can yell any more. The door slams.

 

xi.

“Nicaise. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Nicaise stops. His arms and palms hurt. The sword in his hands is too heavy for him, but he hadn’t noticed. His feet have carried him, stumbling, running, to the training ring; he didn’t think, he just picked a sword and _swung._

He turns. King Laurent is leaning on the entrance to the arena. He looks as if he’s been there for a while. Nicaise feels heat creep up his neck and cheeks.

Laurent takes Nicaise’s wrists. The skin of his palms is a little red. Where it isn’t rubbed raw, calluses are forming. “You should have at least practiced the basic forms before you started.” Nicaise hadn’t had the patience to warm up. “I’ll have Paschal make a salve for you.”

That, he doesn’t expect. “You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s no problem.” A beat. “I should have thought you’d be the type to rage at a wooden post for hours and hours.”

Nicaise tries to get his breathing even again. “It hasn’t been hours and hours.” That’s half a lie: He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

“Mm,” Laurent says noncommittally, his own hands clasping gracefully behind his back. Nicaise is still panting. “I used to do the same, after Auguste died.”

Nicaise blinks. “Oh.” The information is new but not surprising. Nicaise breathes and breathes and breathes. “Harcourt,” he says.

“Harcourt?”

 _“Harcourt,_ he’s so—” Nicaise bites down on the inside of his cheek. Bad habit. “He keeps… He keeps saying the Regent _loved_ him, he thinks he’d have kept him. It doesn’t even matter _what_ I say, he just—” No, Nicaise doesn’t have the words. He picks up the sword and slams it into the post again. The blade sinks into the wood, and Nicaise doesn’t have the energy to pull it back out.

He knows Laurent talks to Harcourt sometimes, even if they’re not that close, because Harcourt just hates Laurent so much— and _God,_ isn’t that just _so stupid_ of Harcourt— so surely Laurent knows what Harcourt believes about the Regent. What is Nicaise meant to _do?_ But Laurent is so quiet, letting the silence stretch.

“Nicaise.” Laurent’s voice is the softest Nicaise has ever heard it, all quiet and empathetic. _“You_ said the Regent would keep you, once.”

Nicaise swallows. “I was stupid.”

“No.” Laurent’s voice is firmer. “You were a boy. As is Harcourt.”

 

xii.

When Councillor Herode finally protests against Nicaise’s presence in the Council— in front of both Veretian _and_ Akielon courtiers, no less— Nicaise isn’t surprised. It has been a long time coming. Nicaise has toed the line for weeks. This is just the last straw.

“It’s shameful to wear that in a royal court!” Herode booms. Nicaise breathes deeply, his face a mask, his chin upon his fist, and he thinks to himself, _You chose this._ The blood red rubies dangling from his ear brush his cheek and neck mockingly. They’d looked so much nicer in the privacy of his mirror. He waits for Herode to finish.

“You’re given a seat by the King’s side, and you repay him with disgrace!” Herode is saying. More than half of the Veretian courtiers are nodding. King Damianos is frowning, but at Herode. King Laurent’s face betrays nothing, but the clear blue of his gaze is fixed upon Nicaise. “You call yourself an advisor of the King? It is an insult to think this Council will _ever_ hear your counsel! You dress yourself as a pet, with jewelry that is not your own, but gifts from an executed traitor!”

The hall is alive with murmurs of agreement from both Veretian and Akielon sides, but when Herode stops speaking it still feels quieter. If only the buzzing in Nicaise’s ears would hush, too. All this over a few rubies. Nicaise lifts his head.

“Gifts from a traitor?” he asks, eyes wide and innocent. He had sold all of the Regent’s gifts the day he had defected from him. “But I purchased this with my own income.”

Herode blinks, leaning back as though he never expected Nicaise would speak against him. “Then it is a waste— a _squandering_ of what the Kings have given you— I warned His Majesty against this—”

Nicaise truly _hates_ traditionalists. Sheer desire to prove Herode wrong allows him to keep his voice down, his composure untroubled. “Against what? I purchased this from an old Veretian jeweler who was in need of money. Do you think of me as a _pet,_ Councillor? I'm not. The decision was my own.” Herode sputters. “And if I may be so bold as to say it, I don’t think a simple earring should be such a matter of shock. After all —” Nicaise lets his gaze slide to meet Laurent’s. “It’s clear that traditions are changing, in both Vere and Akielos.”

When Nicaise finishes speaking, he feels as tired as though he has run a marathon. This time, silence falls like a blanket upon the hall. Almost all of the attention has suddenly shifted from Nicaise to Laurent and Damianos; the golden bands upon their wrists.

King Laurent folds his fingers, elbows resting upon the arms of his throne. The pose pulls at his cuffs: A sliver of gold shows for all to see.

“Indeed,” his king says, smiling. “Well put.”

 

xiii.

Nicaise has never quite learned how to apologize, and clearly, neither has Harcourt. After their argument, Nicaise watches the boy skirt around him for days, obviously uncomfortable, shooting furtive glances that are not really so furtive.

 _Serves him right._ Nicaise is petty and stubborn and cruel, sometimes. _Least now we’re both miserable._

Harcourt lasts five days before he follows Nicaise to the library, lays his books down on the table in front of them, and says quietly, “Can we continue the lessons? I didn't... They weren't that bad.”

"Harcourt." (Sometimes, Nicaise isn’t petty or stubborn or cruel at all.) “I... I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Harcourt sits. “I… It was mean, what I said.” Small, nimble fingers trace the leather bindings of the books. “You’ve never lied to me. I think.”

It is the closest thing to a mutual apology (and mutual forgiveness) that Nicaise has ever experienced. He takes the topmost book. “We’ll start with geography.”

“Oh!” Harcourt’s eyes brighten. “But— can’t we do something else?”

Nicaise raises an eyebrow. Harcourt, unlike him, was in school for a while before the Regent forced him into a contract. Perhaps that was why Harcourt seemed to take it for granted sometimes. The orphanage was small and poor and without a choice; the palace must have seemed like heaven in comparison. It wasn’t.

“You’re the one who brought the books.”

“Well, _yeah,_ but—” Harcourt shrugs. “I still studied when you didn’t tutor me, y’know. I'm not behind. Can’t we do something else?”

Nicaise rests his cheek in the palm of his hand. “If you finish what's left of your studies for today I’ll take you out to the training ring.” He can’t believe he’s bargaining with a _child._

Harcourt’s head comes up. “Will you let me hold a real knife?”

“No,” Nicaise says, rolling his eyes. “A practice weapon, if you do it properly.”

“Nooo,” Harcourt whines, flopping back down in the armchair. “No deal.”

_“What?”_

“No.”

Well. Fine. _Fine._ Nicaise sits back and crosses his arms, thinking, a smile tugging at his lips. “If you finish your studies for today, I’ll… huh.” Would it be worth Laurent’s reprimand if he— well, definitely not. But he asks anyway:

“Ever ridden on horseback before?”


End file.
